The Inquisition
by Shadowfang3000
Summary: "Bloodedge, your crime is life. It is also your punishment." - Ragna already felt like his relationship with Tao was getting complex. However, when a man dubbing himself "Lestrade" starts hunting him down, things begin to get a tad bit worse...


**The Inquisition**

(A/N) Well, the sequel to "Shattered Ties" has already been planned for the most part, but I felt like taking a break from my usual angst-fest with Relius, and decided to go back to where it all began: Tao and Ragna! :D

Now, I must warn you that I haven't written humour fics for more than a year, and I'm trying to avoid using my usual referential humour due to the setting of Blazblue. Also, take in account that this fic has an OC in a major role, that being my only BB fan-character "Lestrade the Inquisitor" (Who is, coincidentally, heavily inspired by The Inquisitor from the British TV show "Red Dwarf"). Who is this bloke?... Well, read on :P

WARNING: OC characters, dreadful attempts at humour and a bit of gore at the end! D:

**Part 1: Prelude**

It seemed to be a rite of passage to hear of the great legend in the NOL, at least that's what Lieutenant Bickerstaff always thought. Often he'd find the platoon gossiping and exchanging rumours about the stupid story, usually just to scare the younger recruits.

This legend was of a man who dedicated his life – and his death – to ultimate knowledge, and became the judge and juror of all people.

Anywhere, anywhen.

The man had no name so the legend goes, though to be honest it was more than likely that the historians had no valid reference. It is claimed that the man, slender and sickly, spent his entire life feasting his eyes upon the many works of history, literature and philosophy produced by his species. Seated in a museum on an island small yet significant in the Old World, he lived life in seclusion from others.

This was before the Dark War.

Before the _Black Beast._

The man was adamant in his position, not willing to abandon his quest to find the answers to all things. He continued to read as people ran for shelter. He continued to read as the women and children screamed for help. He continued to read as the Beast closed in around him. He continued to read as the rafters collapsed, trapping him in a towering inferno.

He died reading.

Though the tale claims that he never did die.

Surviving his wounds - be it luck or a work of god - the man retook his throne in the derelict museum, the land around him now but an empty valley where the whirling winds buffeted ones senses, and the ruins of a once great civilisation withered away into myth.

As he read on and on for one-hundred years, two-hundred years... Slowly the world began to rebuild itself in the high reaches of mountains. He knew of this, but still he continued scanning every single page of every single work, from Shakespeare to Nietzsche to Marx to Nelson.

Slowly he began to uncover the truth.

The Great Lie.

There was _no_ god, _no_ karma, and _no_ after-life. There was no reward at the end of one's journey, just an eternity in eternal shadow.

He was bitter about this, knowing that so many evil-doers and leeches from the labour of others would receive no punishment in the pits of the Underworld. So, he did what the Philosophers before him did: He theorised.

After years of deliberation, he concluded that there was only one single purpose in life, which was to achieve all you can, and to not let the sands of time be your undoing.

So with this in mind, he raised from his seat for the first time in centuries, packing his belongings and ascending the mountains to judge, trial, and sentence the worthless.

And so began the Inquisition.

... Or so the story goes. Bickerstaff thought it was a load of rubbish, and would often beat his opinion into his men, literally when he was bored.

He rubbed his tired eyes, his short, almost feminine physique hidden by the many layers of duvets and blankets he had piled upon himself. He'd never really been good at taking the heat, so it wasn't uncommon for him to skip his shifts during the Summer and let Sergeant Moody take care of the drills.

He had a particular liking for Moody: Very prim, very proper, almost austere. That was the type of man he often presented himself as, with his second in command supporting his claims even if they were total shash. Once Bickerstaff told a story about how he beat one of the Majors in a game of snap, and Moody easily got an unenthusiastic "Woo" from the platoon by threatening them with the blunt end of a cricket bat.

He needed to get to sleep. He'd told himself that he'd go to work in the morning, having avoided his job for a good three days now under the claim that he had a severe case of Athlete's Foot. He forced his eyes shut, and tried to imagine something that was mindnumbingly dull, like a Soap Opera or a teenage relationship.

It didn't work that well.

"Lieutenant." A voice whispered, hoarse as if its owner smoked entire tobacco farms. "Get up."

"You one of the new recruits? Go away or I'll report you to the Captain." Bickerstaff growled spitefully, sickened by this man's interruption of his daydreaming.

"Donald Bickerstaff, rise from your bed immediately." The voice said again, this time sounding like a hardworking mother who'd just found their toddler spreading jam across the bathroom walls.

"Listen punk, scram!" Bickerstaff hastily replied, rising to look the man in the eye.

The single eye at least.

One eyed, tall, mystical looking, and wearing the type of white longcoat you'd usually see on men who live in windy countries and stand at cliff faces posing, the man looked down at him with a face of contempt. His voice rumbled the entire room, as if someone had set their phone to the strongest vibrate setting and tossed it under a chairleg.

"You have been judged as unfit for life, and unworthy of existence." The man reached for the back of his belt, fondling a shape that hanged there. "I'm here to collect."

What he pulled out wasn't exactly the most pleasant thing that he could've revealed, though it wasn't the worst either. True, Bickerstaff would've preferred it if he had pulled out a bouquet of daffodils and serenaded "Donnie, baby: You beautiful!", but at least he hadn't eaten a kilograms-worth of Sherbet and pulled out a bowl of Nitroglycerin with shaky hands. Instead he pulled out a much more tame and acceptable, - and rather vicious looking - machete, covered in scratches and imperfections to make it look more grizzly and mature.

"... A-Are you sure you didn't make a wrong turn? The canteen is just around the corner..." Bickerstaff nervously asked, his entire body trembling to a beat and his teeth chattering like a Flamenco dancer's weird clapper thing. The man began to inspect the blade, pulling out a flat slab of stone and slowly sharpening the aged weapon in an almost autonomous manner.

"Trust me, Donald Bickerstaff: I've asked around three people so far, I'm pretty sure I'm in the right place now." He said dryly. Bickerstaff tugged his duvet close, like a woman caught in the nude by their pervy Uncle Richard. Just like pervy Uncle Richard, the man stared at him deeply.

"Now..." He slipped the stone away in an inside pocket, and spun the machete around a couple of times like a badass. "Die."

"WUH-WAIT!" Bickerstaff cried, pulling the duvet back even further to shield his face. The man paused with his foot on the bed, and the machete over his head – ready to take his.

"What? What?!" The man growled, suddenly losing his intimidating persona and coming across as a bit of a fool. Bickerstaff tried to raise an eyebrow, but found that they'd both shot up his forehead and landed in the sink in fear. Stalling for time, and scanning the room for some sort of weapon, he shot the first question in his mind:

"Why in Christ's name do Officer's have to wear these tights?"

"It's not like you have to worry: You're more feminine than a mini-skirt playing Badminton." The man automatically replied, reeling the machete back once more to have another swing at that juicy looking neck of his.

"N-No! Why me? I've done good things, I've achieved!" Bickerstaff cried. The man was growing impatient, lunging at him and pressing his throat against the backrest with his forearm.

"All are judged by what they could be; what they should be." He started. "You've lived life making excuses for yourself and lazily leaving the hard work to others. You could have been so much more if you used your quite capable mind, and deserve this gruesome end." He continued, his breath stinking of cold tea. Bickerstaff's limp hands did all they could to grasp onto his arm and pull him away, but his forearm was stiffer than a week-old baguette.

"Guuh... Can't you give me just a bit more time?" Bickerstaff drowsily begged, his oxygen starved brain begging for air. The man shook his head, and in a quick movement pulled the man up, got behind him and covered his mouth with a rough palm.

"I'm sorry, Donald Bickerstaff. I'd give you more, I really would..." He sighed calmly, as if it was just another day in the office. He placed the tip of the machete at Bickerstaff's throat, the cold chill of the ancient metal sending a bitter chill through his spine.

He tried to say "Please, no!", but thanks to the man's hand muffling his speech, it came out more like "Peas, oooh!"

"... But you've already wasted it all away." He finished.

He pulled the blade slowly, staining it with the dark crimson of his victim's blood. Eventually he pulled the machete back, letting loose his grip of the Lieutenant, causing him to flop onto the floor limply.

Bickerstaff was still gurgling in agony five minutes later, his stiff arms straining to reach for the long red line that stretched from one side of his throat to the other. The last image in his eyes was the unnamed man standing above his twitching, paralysed body. He wiped his weapon across the bed duvet, the wet blood staining the sheets. Eventually he sheathed the blade and went on his merry way, retreating into the shadows and leaving with one last message.

"Donald Bickerstaff, your crime is life, and your punishment is its confiscation. Rot in hell, filth of the Earth."

X

(A/N): Well, that was a tad bit creepy. Don't know if I should make this an M because of that one scene! D:

Don't worry; the next chapter will bring in Tao and Ragna, and the Romance stuff: They're the main characters after all! :P


End file.
